My experience with America’s Got Talent was dreadful. I know, surprise, surprise. Besides the fact that I got berated on national television, being part of America’s Got Talent was emotionally draining in a way that made me question my sanity. I can’t be too cynical, considering it was Piers Morgan’s insult and Sharon Osbourne’s doubt that motivated me to keep trying. That is, after I scraped myself off the bathroom floor. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up.
I was a junior in college when I heard about America’s Got Talent tryouts and, of course, I called my mom. When I asked her if I should audition she didn’t even pause.
“Absolutely! Can I come with you?”
I think I knew she’d say that, which is why I called her first. I bought a plane ticket, and my mom met me in Los Angeles. For several hours we waited in a long line of America’s finest. I was sick with nerves, but watching a Michael Jackson impersonator practice spinning on his roller skates all day did wonders for my mood.
Waiting for a response was agony, but a few tedious months later I was invited back to LA for the first round of taping. I couldn’t call my mom fast enough. I was going to be on national television!
In preparation for my next audition, I was determined to overcome the added stress of playing in front of a crowd. Since I didn’t have any big crowds at my disposal, I did something even more stressful: I went door to door in my apartment complex and did private performances for complete strangers.
With my iPod speakers in one hand and my violin in the other, I explained that I had a big audition and needed to practice my stage presence. Surprisingly enough, everyone I approached invited me inside. Seconds later, I was attempting backbends and twirls in their living rooms to a barely audible backtrack. Most of them avoided eye contact, and if they were cute boys, I did, too. I figured if I could handle something that uncomfortable, I could take any reaction that came at me onstage.
When I got back to LA for rehearsals, I fell quickly into the trap we call reality TV. I won’t go into too much detail, but I will say the experience in general felt more like a prison than a television show. In the space below please insert your own assumptions about how reality TV is handled behind the scenes.
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My guess is you’re probably pretty close to the truth. I wish I could say I was above it all, but my self-esteem hung in the balance every day. America’s Got Talent became the only thing that mattered, and if I couldn’t succeed there—if they didn’t want me—who would?
After going through several auditions, I made it to the quarterfinals. It was really happening! I had three months to prepare for my next performance, and I practiced like my life depended on it, over and over and over again. I was still learning how to dance while I played so I practiced the ears off my roommates and twirled my way through every apartment in Provo.
Before I knew it the week of prep before the live show had arrived. At this point I also got to know the other contestants as more than my competition. Murray Sawchuck was one of the best magicians I have ever seen. More than that, he was the voice of reason when I was surrounded by uncertainty. He was a veteran in show business, and he reminded me often that America’s Got Talent was nothing but a giant game—if I lost, I could always play somewhere else.
“Just be dramatic. Act like it’s your one chance and say what they want to hear. It’s a game, but two can play.”
I didn’t want to play games—I wanted to play my violin. I wanted to win based on talent. Besides, I really did believe it was my one and only chance.
A few nights later, I got onstage and performed for America. We all know what happened next, and if you don’t you can watch it on the Internet. But to this day I can’t listen to that Kesha song without hearing the sound of a buzzer in the middle of the chorus. It took everything I had not to cry onstage as, one by one, the judges broke me down on national television. Sharon Osbourne said what I was doing wouldn’t be enough to fill a theater in Vegas, and Piers Morgan told me I sounded like “a bunch of rats being strangled.” It was the first time anyone had ever been mean to me for the sake of being mean. I think this says a lot about how I grew up, and it’s a gift I wish bestowed on every human being in this world. I guess if that was the worst treatment I had encountered so far in my life, things were going pretty well. But heartache is relative, and worse than the humiliation was the fact that I thought my dreams were coming to an end.
When the lights faded I held it together until I reached the bathroom, where I locked the door, sank to the floor, and sobbed. I was humiliated, but more than anything, I felt utterly betrayed by God. Leading up to my performance, I was confident it was nothing short of divine intervention that had led me there—that God wanted me to do well. Instead of rising to the top as I had prayed for, I took a nosedive, and I couldn’t understand why.
At the end of the night I walked slowly outside to meet my family, each step heavier than the last. I knew what they would say—about my performance being great despite what the judges had said—and I rehearsed simple responses in my head. Thanks, mom or That’s very sweet.
They were huddled at the street corner to my right: my mom on the phone, Brooke talking to Marina, and my cousin and Jennifer holding posters with my name in red glitter. I was so focused on not crying, I almost didn’t notice my dad ahead of the group, walking in my direction. He reached me quickly, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and whispered, “I am so proud of you.”
I hadn’t prepared a response for that, so I didn’t say anything. I just let his words sink in, like the tears I left on his sleeve.
On the way out of the parking lot my dad’s car broke down, so we walked to a nearby IHOP and waited for a tow truck. I remember sitting in the corner booth, trying to hold it together in front of my family and our middle-aged waitress. In an effort to distract myself I told my eating disorder to shove it, and I ordered a tall chocolate milkshake. When I finished the last sip, my defiance dissolved into self-loathing and I cried even harder. Why did I eat that? Why did I come here? I’m so fat, so ugly. My demons were at the top of their game. Jennifer, however, went to every table in the restaurant asking everyone to vote for me. Based on my performance, I already knew it was over. But as you know by now, Jennifer never quits before the finish line.
The next night I got back up onstage and faced the judges, the audience, and America as they called someone else’s name. I had come so close, and for months I had been carrying this secret fantasy around, imagining all the ways my life would change for the better. I didn’t have a Plan B. This was my one chance, and it was gone as quickly as it had come.
Hours earlier, I was the center of focus, and I could practically feel the spotlight waiting to fall on me. The problem was, all this attention fell into my lap at once, and I was like a balloon filled with air. When the balloon suddenly popped, I was left more torn, empty, and shriveled than when I started.
People often tell me how smart I was for not signing a contract with a record label, but the truth is, I was never given the option. I didn’t have anything to sign or not sign, because no one wanted me. I think God was trying to say, “Just hold on a minute, I have so much more in store if you’ll be patient.” I wasn’t patient at first, but I didn’t give up. And, eventually, my plans did line up with His. America’s Got Talent was only the first step, a learning experience. Had I won the show, I would have signed anything out of desperation. I thank God daily that it was never a choice, because I would have made the wrong one. After being eliminated, I had to start over from scratch, which turned out to be one of the biggest blessings in my music career. Working from the ground up gave me the time I needed to learn the value of my identity as a musician and a human. Moving forward, I realized I didn’t want anyone to tell me how to dress, what song to play, or how to do my hair and makeup ever again. I didn’t want to be a puppet, and I decided I would never submit to someone else’s opinion above my own.
If I was going to continue in the music world, I would do it on my terms.
When the media and my fans praise me for creating such a strong platform on my own, I have to remind myself that it was never my idea. The big man upstairs had my back the whole time. After America’s Got Talent, I imagine He was up there saying, “Slow down,” or “This is not the end,” or “Will someone get this girl an apple!”
No matter what He said, He was up there.
On the day following my elimination I was waiting by Gate 32B in the Los Angeles International Airport to fly back to Utah. A man leaned over my shoulder from behind and whispered, with a thick Mexican accent, “I voted for you.” I smiled and said, “Thank you,” as he slowly backed away. It was simultaneously the sweetest and the creepiest thing anyone has ever said to me.
WHAT HAPPENS
IN VEGAS
Following my experience on America’s Got Talent, I took a short hiatus from my violin. My confidence was on the mend, but the thought of stepping onto another stage still left me feeling panicked and embarrassed. I wallowed in self-pity for a healthy amount of time, and then I got back to work. In the fall of 2010 I took my first big step back into the music scene by auditioning at a collegiate showcase. It was an opportunity to be seen by a variety of college event planners from all over the country, and I took comfort in knowing that none of them were going to interrupt my performance with an earsplitting buzzer, or critique me in front of a national audience. They were either going to hire me, or they weren’t.
In the following months several universities booked me for different events, and I got the added experience of performing on college campuses all over the country. I never knew exactly what I was heading into, but more often than not, I was scheduled to perform in the cafeteria. I’ve played in a lot of unique settings, but there’s nothing quite like getting the lunchtime slot in a food court. I didn’t understand why I had been brought hundreds of miles to play for distracted students, but the more events I played, the less I cared. Prior to a performance at the University of Connecticut, the announcer introduced me with a myriad of false information. Among other things, she stated that I was the winner of America’s Got Talent. I remember forcing a smile and thinking, If that were true I don’t think I would be playing next to the Taco Bell counter at noon on a Wednesday. When she finished, I gritted my teeth and stepped out on the two-foot riser in front of thirty people, half of whom were standing in various fast-food lines, while the other half were absorbed in lunchtime banter. At first, this kind of audience was discouraging, but I took it as a challenge. I played louder and danced harder to fight for their attention. Hey! Can your tuna sandwich do this? At the end of every set, I bowed and told the remaining bystanders they could find a few of my covers on YouTube.
The compensation I received for my college performances was decent, but I had to pay for my own travel and accommodations most of the time. To maximize profit, I frequently slept in my rental car or at the airport. In case you have never had the opportunity to spend the night in an airport, I’ll let you in on a little secret: that’s when all the monster vacuums come out. At first it was a nuisance, but after three back-to-back shows in different states, I became so tired that not even the cleaning staff could keep me awake.
When I wasn’t traveling to random college events I was still taking a full load of courses at BYU and working part-time. I used the money from my day job to get by, and I put every penny I earned from performing back into my music. I installed a pickup on my violin, got a sound pedal so I could control my settings onstage, bought a new bow, and that November I started working with a producer named Marco G. on original music. We spent hours together developing backtracks, and then I wrote and recorded the melody. When we were done I had spent two thousand dollars on three tracks: “Spontaneous Me,” “Song of the Caged Bird,” and “Transcendence.” Besides my tuition, it was the most money I’d ever spent on anything, and self-doubt was my steady companion. It reminded me of all the other places my money could have gone, as well as the unlikelihood that anyone would buy my music. In spite of these insecurities, I continued to save my money and write music. In April 2011, I returned to the studio to put together a few more tracks.
Eventually, I set up a website and started getting offers from other event planners. That’s when I found out how difficult it was to determine my own value. I always hated discussing payment with prospective clients, so I frequently pretended to be my own manager, “Jerry.” Jerry answered all my e-mails about money, but even he wasn’t comfortable asking for enough pay or negotiating contracts. As a result, Jerry and I were frequently overworked and undercompensated. The first gig Jerry booked for me paid two hundred dollars plus accommodations to fly out of state for a corporate business event. Jerry also agreed to have me travel several hours to play at a child’s birthday party. This went on for months until I got an offer to play at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Finally, a gig I could say out loud without turning red in the face. To save money I planned on driving from Provo to Vegas, but the day before the show, my car started rattling.
The following morning I barely made it to the bus station on time, and when I boarded the Greyhound almost all the seats were taken. Finally, I spotted a seat in the very back, covered in bags. The woman who owned the luggage glared at me as I approached, but she and I both knew my options were few.
“I’m sorry, but I really need to be on this bus. Can I sit here?” I asked cautiously. After a few uncomfortable seconds, she moved her things to the floor, and I was safely on my way to Sin City.
At the first rest stop I got off the bus to stretch my legs, mentally agonizing over the remaining four hours of my trip. Why am I doing this? Are these gigs worth all the time and effort it takes to get to them? And for what? A few distracted listeners in a cafeteria or a club? Suddenly, the direction of my life seemed pointless. I succumbed once again to exhaustion and despair. This dream was impractical, and this lifestyle lonely. I needed to just finish college, get a real job, and move on. As I sat back down in my seat, I noticed the woman next to me hadn’t moved, but the scowl was gone from her face. She must be getting close to her stop, I thought. When I nonchalantly asked her where she was headed she told me she was traveling to California to visit a daughter she hadn’t seen in seven years. Her name was Debra, and to my surprise, she had already been on different buses for three days. She was recently divorced, had just been laid off, and was facing a future of uncertainty and a past of regret. “So,” she said slowly, “I’m picking up what I got left and moving forward, doing some things I should have done a long time ago.” As she spoke I couldn’t help but wonder. If I gave up on my dream, would I find myself on a Greyhound in seven years, talking to a stranger about doing some things I should have done a long time ago? When we parted ways, I thanked her for letting me have the seat, and I wished her the best for the remainder of her ride.
That night I played at the MGM’s Studio 54 with DJ Loczi. Loczi was nice enough, but I knew immediately this was not a scene I wanted to frequent. As the night continued, barely dressed dancers joined me onstage, and the number of wasted men in the audience multiplied. They pointed, they drooled, and they shouted things not worth repeating. I could have been playing the kazoo in a cow suit and they wouldn’t have noticed, so long as my dancer friends were on the stage to provide the real entertainment. I wanted to grab the girls by the shoulders and yell, “You’re better than this! Go find your clothes and your self-respect!” Instead, they did booty shakes and danced on poles. At the end of the night I was all too happy to close my set and go back to my room. The gig sounded more legit than most from a business point of view, and the money was better, but I knew I wouldn’t be returning. College cafeterias, here I come.
In the morning, the event coordinator stopped by my room to thank me for playing and cordially asked me what time my flight was leaving. When I told her I was taking the bus, she looked at me in horror.
“You rode a Greyhou
nd? How did you stomach that?”
Riding the Greyhound wasn’t my first choice, either, but her aversion to it upset me. I felt defensive—for Debra, and for the other people on the same bus with their own reasons for being there. She offered to have her assistant book me a flight home on their tab, but I refused on principle. I thought of my dad traveling the country in a disheveled camper and the people he met—people like Debra who had stories to share—and I politely declined her offer. I wanted to take the bus. I probably won’t have a reason to ride a Greyhound anytime soon, but I’m glad I did then. Had I not gotten a reality check from Debra, I might have given up. Wherever you are, Debra, I hope you found that place you were moving toward. With your help, I found mine.
BLAME IT
ON THE BOYS
Sometimes I worry about becoming a cat lady, and I don’t even like cats. Aside from their superior attitudes, feline hygiene in general disgusts me. Covering yourself in saliva is not an acceptable substitute for a bath. Obviously, I prefer men to cats, but my lifestyle makes it difficult for me to meet that single, hunky, funny, talented, intellectual, supportive, family-oriented, stylish, religious guy I’m looking for. Even before I started touring, I had trouble finding a man I could see myself sharing toothpaste with on a daily basis. But it’s not for lack of trying.
During my final semester of college I developed a magnetic aura that attracted everyone within one hundred miles who had a single cousin, brother, roommate, neighbor, or uncle. From every side people closed in on me, trying to play matchmaker and rescue me from a future of cleaning litter boxes in old age. I still don’t know what possessed me to agree to all those blind dates. It probably had something to do with my hopeless romantic belief that saying no could mean missing out on my soul mate. Most of these setups were perfectly normal boys with whom I simply had nothing in common, but occasionally they turned out to be genuine doughheads. People always thought they knew someone perfect for me—which frequently turned out to be offensive once I got to know my dates. I’m going to share a few stories with you now in hopes that it will save some other single girl from a similar experience. Gentlemen, this chapter is a “what not to do” guide of sorts, so listen up.
The Only Pirate at the Party Page 9